Forbidden to Remember
by Silly Ella
Summary: Bella Whitman at the age of 12 was diagnosed with amnesia. Now a college student in Paris writing a murder mystery finds that her story may indeed be the key to unlocking the horrors of her forgotten past.


Hello! So here it is, I hope that you like it. Please tell me what you think! I'm sorry if there are any mistakes or such, but I've no Beta yet to I did as well as I possibly could. And no worries, Bella's odd last name WILL be explained sooner or later. The name Bella Swan we all know will indeed appear.

Anywho- enjoy and please review!

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_The sound of her parents' hysterical screaming woke her up. He parents were usually the loving, almost annoyingly happy type, but for the last three nights that had been the furthest from the truth; and tonight was just like the others- the panicked voices, the arguing, the luggage being packed then unpacked. It seemed to her that her mother was oddly the calmer of the two (which confused her as her mother was usually the only one prone to frenzies). But something about tonight was different. She could feel it. Thus, as curiosity finally got the best of her, as quietly as possible she creped downstairs. Just as she reached the last landing, her father scooped her up and ran her back to her room. She could smell the sweat rolling off his face as he gently put her down next her armoire. "Cherie" he said in a voice laced with terror, "you must pack, darling, and must do this quickly. We haven't much time." She wanted to ask him why? Why and for what? But the fear in his eyes stopped her and without a word, she turned around and started to throw her dresses into her minute travelling luggage._

_It was barely dawn when there was a knock on the door. Suddenly the house was unbearably quiet. The girl ran to her parents, but upon entering the kitchen, her mother pushed her rather roughly into the cupboard "chute, mon amour, chute. You must not make a sound, must not move an inch- do you understand?" though before she could respond, her mother pushed her back and closed the door. Suddenly, a loud noise hurt her ears- the kitchen door slammed into the wall and was pulled off its hinges, causing a disturbing rattle as it fell to the floor- breaking the unearthly silence._

_Furtively, the girl opened the cupboard door infinitesimally in order to see what had happened. Immediately she regretted not listening to her mother, yet she is unable to refrain from looking. A stranger, holding a gun to her father spoke words that she was unable to comprehend- because it was an unknown language or out of fear she did not know, nor did she care. All she saw was the gun pointed at her father. There was a great booming sound, and before she could even understand what had happened, her father fell to the floor; unmoving. Without a seconds pause, the man turned to her mother. For a fleeting instant, the girl thought that her mother could win- that she could beat this man. Running towards him, her mother tried to rip the gun way- tearing at everything in her path. But the man was quick; he grabbed her and pined her down on the floor. Thriving in pain, she began to rip and tear at the man with her nails- hair, skin and dirt are clawed from his face and arms. The man, seemingly unharmed took out a knife and cut her face- a gash from ear to ear. He continued to stab her repeatedly in the stomach until her mother's cries were no more. Upon seeing this, her mother's last breath, the little girl was over taken by blackness- which engulfed her and she soon closed her eyes, hoping to never stir again._

_Slowly, the smell of alcohol awakens the young girl. From behind her lids a bright red light danced before her eyes. Though soon after, the light turned to pain. A pain unimaginable to a 9 year old girl. The blazing heat burned her every inch until she could no longer take it. As she pushed the cupboard door open, she realises that the entire house is on fire. Her instincts take over and she runs, though stumbles on two objects: two burning corpses. Terrified she ran away, refusing to think of those faces as her parents. Knowing that her only possible escape is on the second floor, she ran up the stares towards her room. Unthinking, she sprinted towards her window and jumps through- feeling shattered glass and welcoming fresh air. As she fell towards the concrete, she has a sudden realisation that she no longer cares. Her life, her house, her beloved parents. All gone. Everything she ever knew- gone. As the ground comes closer, she no longer cared for her life. The sudden epiphany makes her almost smile. Sweet relief. She welcomed death in open arms, for she knew that the fall would kill her. Peace at last, a peace she would share with her parents very soon._

Finally I put my pen down. Half thrilled, half frightened I re-read the short story I was supposed to be writing for my creative writing class. The vivid details and the agonising pain the little girl in my story felt seemed all too real to me. I really must stop getting so caught up in these dark stories. Here I am, in my senior year of college, majoring in English and the only bloody stories I can write are dark and twisted. Hmm. That must say quite a lot about , I was surprised that my teacher even liked my work. While I did appreciate the compliments, I just couldn't understand why these types of stories were the only ones that inspired me. Perhaps I had not been able to taste life as I should have; perhaps it was the lack of a love life. Whatever it was, it must have had something to do with my faulty memory. Well, absent memory I should say. At the tender age of 12 I was found wondering around Boston, without an ID or even a nickel on me. And of course, the tiny fact that I could no longer remember who I was, nor how I had even gotten there. From a missing persons report filled a few days prior to my discovery, it was believed that I was Lily Whitman. It was not certain for the report only specified that the little girl had brown hair and brown eyes- yet there must be a plethora of browned haired orphans running around Boston. But, as they needed a name to the face, I was henceforth known as Lily. Lily Whitman. Though, a few weeks later I realised with a sudden heartache that my name was not Lily, but Bella. Yet as I would still not remember my last name, my ID still stated that I was Lily, though thankfully my adopted parents were kind enough to change it so that my middle name was Lily and my first name Bella (in hope that my real parents would some day find me, though as I was certain that Lily was not me it was truly a moot point).

With a sudden frustration I forced myself back to the task at hand. Brooding over my memories (well lack of) was of no use when I had a paper to finish. Unfortunately, the day dreaming took its toll, and as procrastination has always been a serious flaw with me, I decided that it would be best to walk around. Thus, I quickly gathered my notebook and pen, stiffed it all into my bag and headed off to no where in particular.

Bored, tired and trying to forget about the terrible horrors yet to come to pass to the little girl in my story, I chose to wander aimlessly through the empty streets of Paris' Cartier Latin. Though my feet ached from having been sat on all day, I tried to ignore them. But as my stomach decided to turn on me as well, I was forced to enter the nearest café. As I waited for the waiter to arrive, I took out my notebook and began to doodle absentmindedly, trying to come up with a proper name for my main character. After a few minutes of writer's block, I realised that the waiter had yet to ask for my order. I finally looked up and tried to find him. Only in France will the waiter roll his eyes at a customer when she asks for a menu. As much as I adore Paris, every time this happens I am torn between a fit of giggles and annoyance.

At long last, my coffee arrived and I savoured the warmth. This was well worth the wait. Absent minded, I looked out of the café's window. There was the usual commotion: a homeless man on the street, a woman giving him a few francs, an old man starring at the woman while his dog stared at her baguette. Pedestrians said bonsoir while others pretend not to have heard. But this was not what caught my eye. A man wearing a grey suit holding a parcel in his left hand held my attention. Though it was not the man himself, but his hand. A hand that was as grey as his suit; though with a purple tint to it. It was a dead looking hand. Suddenly fear griped me and I was no longer in a café, but far off in a cupboard staring at a woman on the ground. Over her is a man with a knife ready to harm her. I wanted to scream, to warn the woman, to distract the man so that she may run. But as fear tightened my throat, I could scarcely remember to breath. And so, I watched in horror as the man dug his knife into the woman. A knife held by a dead looking hand.

As quickly as the scene came, it disappeared, bringing me back to my Parisian café. But the man in the grey suit was no longer there. I started to shiver, and as the shivers became tremors I was forced to hold on to the table for support. What the hell was that? The scenery, the atmosphere, the events- all exactly the same as my story. Was that simply a writer's epiphany? Well of course, what else could it be? But what of the man? Surreptitiously, I looked around the café. Hoping yet terrified of seeing that hand again. Though all I could see was a half empty café. No one had even noticed my episode, or whatever it was. Needing some air, I got up and paid for my coffee. As I handed my francs to the waiter, he seemed rather please that I was leaving. Upon glancing at myself as I passed the door I could see why: I was still trembling and my face was ghostly white. He was probably frightened that I was going to vomit, and by the looks of it, he would be the one to have to clean it up.

As I reached the side walk, I began to run towards the bridge connecting the Cartier Latin to L'Ile St. Louis. Breathing in the air while holding on the railings did little good to clear my head. Alarmed, I began to ask myself the true nature of my terror. And I realised what was bothering me so much: why did those images feel like a distant memory?


End file.
